Being a Post-Ashkenazi Jew

As Passover approaches, the diversity of practices between Jewish communities becomes more pronounced, visible, and even controversial. For example, the Hasidic stringency of not eating Matza products to which liquid has been added (gebrochts in Yiddish) has spread in some other Orthodox circles; Sephardi/Mizrachi Jews are permitted to eat legumes, which most Ashkenazi Jews have customarily not eaten, presumably because their appearance when ground or cooked could be mistaken for leavened grain products, which are prohibited by traditional practice. And there are Hasidic communities that don’t use garlic on the holiday, presumably because garlic was sometimes stored with grains that could become leavened/chametz.

Back when I became traditionally observant, I defaulted to Orthodox Ashkenazi practices, since my mother’s side came from Russia (now part of Ukraine) and that’s what my youth group and day school was teaching as normative. And it worked, until a few things happened: 1. I discovered that there was an entire range of Jewish culture of the Sephardi and Mizrachi communities that I had missed out on during my education 2. My family hit the 100 year anniversary of fleeing Eastern Europe (and we gave up on returning to Yarun, Ukraine to locate the legendary buried treasure that my grandparents supposedly buried in their backyard to which they were going to return when the socialists/Bolsheviks would be removed from power). Which led me to consider: What, if anything, makes me an Ashkenazi Jew?

Two interesting historical phenomena shed light on how distinctions between Jewish communities faded: In Talmudic times, there were marked differences in practice between Babylonian Jews and Jews of Israel, reported on in the two different versions of the Talmud composed in the two locations. Their prayer customs were somewhat different, they used two different Torah reading cycles, and there seemed to be some differences in how Shabbat and kashrut were observed. But, over the course of time, the differences faded, with the Babylonian customs generally adopted by everyone, regardless of how they had previously practiced. The second interesting point was the blending of various Jewish communities in contemporary Israel. Israel adopted the Sefardi pronounciation of Hebrew over the Ashkenazi pronunciations (a small number of synagogues and yeshivot maintained Ashkenazi pronunciation for ritual and Torah study). And in the food industry in Israel, it became fairly well accepted that Sefardi Passover practices – such as permitting legumes – would be prominent, even though many Ashkenazi Jews would still refrain from eating them. Needless to say, Jews serving in the army together and intermarriage between the edot (communities of origin) also resulted in much more blurring of the lines dividing their members. The army actually developed a unified prayer book that tried to bring the Ashkenazi and Sephardi elements of the liturgy together, to enable everyone to join together for prayer.

My family is now 108 years removed from personal experiences of Eastern Europe. Even the fear and opposition to socialism isn’t as strong as it was in 1917. My identity is that of an American Jew. I have more in common with American Jews (and even with Israeli Jews) than I do with Eastern European Jews of the past or even of the present. My theology is grounded in the writings of American Jewish scholars, and in the collected wisdom and texts that were written in Babylonia, Israel, Morocco, Italy, Egypt, France, as well as Germany, Poland and Hungary. My American Jewish life is traditional observance, but is a contemporary mashup of a range of historical Jewish experiences. What it definitely is not grounded in, is the Jewish lens of Ukraine or Romania (from which we think my father’s family originated).

So, like the mashups that eventually came of the Babylonian and Israeli Judaism of the Talmuds or the mashups of contemporary Israeli life, I embrace the mashup that is Jewish American life (in all but the relatively small Hasidic or “yeshivish communities). And as far as Passover goes, in my world, products are well labeled: nobody is going to mistake hummus for grains, garlic is not being stored with wheat, and I’m as comfortable with the Sefardi liturgy as with the Ashkenazi liturgy.

So, I now identify myself, proudly, as a post-Ashkenazi (American) Jew. I respect my ancestors who lived in (and left) Eastern Europe, but no longer feel bound by their customs. While I have respect for those who continue to choose to identify as Ashkenazi or Sephardi, the distinctions no longer resonate.

For me, I’ve abandoned the avoidance of hummus on Pesach, which by the way, tastes great on shemura matza. And out of deference to the Ashkenazi-hood of the family dishes and silverware, I eat it on paper plates.

However you choose to identify and practice, I wish you a Chag Pesach Sameach, a joyous Passover holiday.